


Encore

by OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Between Gabriel and Aziraphale), Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Aziraphale's just spilt his first blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Dark Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dark Crowley (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extortion, Human AU, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Sexual Abuse, and Crowley is enamored, or rather this is the beginning of a serial killers AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: The blade had been meant for himself.It had been meant for his own throat. It had been meant to stain with his own blood. It had meant to be used at his own shop, surrounded by a failed dream, a failed life.It hadn’t been meant for Gabriel.Aziraphale kills a man. Crowley catches him in the act.***Written for the Trickety-Boo2020 Event! Spooky Level 3, rated for: "major and minor character death, disturbing images or concepts, major dark themes, major violence, etc."***
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 130
Collections: Trick-Or-Treat!





	Encore

**Author's Note:**

> Warning! Spooky Level 3: "level three is your hardcore spooky content. This means potential major and minor character death, very scary/disturbing images or concepts, major dark themes, major violence, etc." - Trickety-Boo 2020
> 
> I decided to do a little spin on my own prompt! This is the first of (what I hope to be are) several Trickety-Boo submissions! I hope you enjoy~

“Bills, bills…” Aziraphale shuffled papers and sorted through envelopes with sinking despair. He combed through the stacks, the shiny blade of a paring knife gleaming as he sliced through parcels and packets. Dread settled uncomfortably in his gut as he mentally calculated this month’s earnings against the cost of overhead and rent.

He knew it wasn’t enough.

It never was.

The phone rang and Aziraphale startled at the sharp tone. Hesitating, he picked it up and uttered a skittish, “Hello…? Yes, Gabriel. I—I, ah, yes. I understand, sir.” It was not so much anxiety that flooded his veins at that very moment. No, what was lodged in his throat that settled and burned like hot coal was something that went beyond quiet, festering guilt. “I will…I will meet you there shortly.”

It was _shame_.

Shame that burned ash into his mouth, suffocating and bitter all at once. “Oh…tonight?” Aziraphale murmured, mind already fled from the conversation. “Yes, that’s fine. That’s…certainly.” Somewhere off in other skies: to other opportunities, other _options_. “Very well. I…I will be there.” And not just the two he was left with. “Goodbye.”

The phone line went silent, the dial tone flat against the hammering of his pulse in his ears.

Aziraphale pushed himself back from his seat. He took a long, somber glance at the tiny world around him: the home he made for himself here at his bookshop, cluttered and cozy filled with all his favorite titles and favorite authors, beloved first editions, and threadbare copies he’d lovingly leafed through over and over again. Of the relics he’d lovingly restored and all the broken little bits and bobs that found a home in his shop.

He felt no warmth in it now.

“This will be the last time,” he whispered amongst the still air of old books and gathering dust. _“The last time.”_

With one last longing look to the tidy tomb that once housed his dreams, Aziraphale stood from his desk and made his way out the shop, the curtains rising for his final act.

He pocketed the knife.

* * *

Aziraphale knew that Gabriel, at his core, was a businessman.

He knew Gabriel fancied himself a man who never played _dirty_ — not really. It was part of his character, part of his _role._ Everything was laid out there in black and white, deforesting a small acre of trees in the hefty contract the gave all his lenders. He fancied himself a _stern but fair_ fellow with smiling, perfectly white teeth as he gleefully recited, “It’s in the contract!” as he left his borrowers to his _associates’_ bidding.

((which usually resulted in a kneecap or two less than what the borrower initially started with.))

And _sure,_ Aziraphale would call his methods _messy_ and _unethical_ and hell, he would even go so far as to label it _cruel_ —

But Aziraphale knew that Gabriel, at his core, was a businessman.

And there was nothing _nice_ about the type of business loan sharks lured the desperate and unsuspecting to.

Aziraphale typically met him at Eden’s Gate, a bar with a less than savory reputation for all the suits that came sauntering in. Aziraphale had asked him once why he always chose this locale to conduct his business, of all places, to which Gabriel once gave an offhanded remark about _knowing the owner_ and that the drinks were always on the house for _Family_.

((not that any of Gabriel’s clientele ever stayed there for long; beyond an unassuming door lead way to an alley where all niceties were forfeited and the real manner of business commenced.))

He found Gabriel at his usual perch: drink in his hand, a cutting smile on his mouth, and a small handful of “business associates” flanking him from all sides. Aziraphale caught his gaze, nodded, and walked over. Nausea rose up to his throat, bitter bile as the men eyed him and smirked to one another as Gabriel greeted him by name.

“Aziraphale!” His voice almost seemed to boom against the droning chatter of the other patrons around them. “How good to see you, would you like a drink?”

“No, I, ah.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I’m perfectly all right—but I thank you for the offer. Would...would you like to discuss the, ah…”

Aziraphale already felt dizzy with dread. A few men to his right snickered.

“All right, straight to the meat of the matter—I like that!” Gabriel downed the rest of his drink before moving to stand. As always, his men followed suit, though Gabriel always raised a hand to signal that he’d be taking their session alone.

Aziraphale should maybe count himself lucky that Gabriel never conducted these meetings with the audience of his…associates. He knew how he looked to them: _weak_ , **_soft_** , so very _timid_ and so very _nervous_ — a lamb lead to slaughter. It was obvious that he was no threat to Gabriel.

Not after so long.

((Aziraphale already knew not to put up a fight; he knew his role and he played his part.))

That, and they knew that Gabriel personally preferred to have his privacy during their…meetings.

This was evident with the leers and jeers sounding from the men behind him. They dispersed at their superior’s dismissal and Aziraphale shivered at the feeling of eyes watching his back as they trickled out of the bar. Gabriel, as usual, paid them little mind as they made their way to the back.

He held the door open for Aziraphale, and with his gut plummeting to the soles of his feet, the bookshop owner stepped through into the dark.

* * *

The area was gated by metal fencing and flanked on three sides by derelict buildings with neighbors that knew better than to investigate any off-putting sounds echoing through the night. Aziraphale jumped as the heavy door slammed shut, leaving the two alone amid the settling dusk and stretching shadows from overhead streetlamps. 

Gabriel took to center stage beneath the dimming spotlights, enacting his little spiel of, “So, have you brought the money, sunshine?” despite knowing this song and dance all too well. It was an awful performance really, but Aziraphale played his part all the same, handing Gabriel the envelope, listlessly watching as Gabriel counted the pounds, all the while scrawling a parody of concern on his features. “This isn’t all of it, is it?”

And thus continued Aziraphale’s little role in this pitiful play: “I know, I’m short a few hundred—”

A mockery of a tragedy. “That much is obvious, sunshine,” Gabriel said, pocketing the money. 

“—I have a few buyers interested in some first editions coming by next week—”

“Now, this story’s sounding more and more familiar.” Gabriel hummed, trying and failing to appear thoughtful as he crossed his arms. “Didn’t you spin that same yarn last month? Or was it the month before that?”

Aziraphale was silent.

Gabriel heaved a great sigh. “I don’t run a charity, Aziraphale.”

“Yes. I know this,” Aziraphale returned. Despite folding his hands behind his back, he could feel them trembling. 

He startled as Gabriel laid a hand on his shoulder. “I get it, sunshine,” he said, moving uncomfortably close. “The world’s landed you in a tough spot. You’re stubborn and I like that, but you’ve got to get with the times. No one’s interested in moldy old books anymore. It’s a digital age now, and no one has time to trifle with trinkets from the past.” Aziraphale flinched as Gabriel gave an “encouraging” thump to his back and tried very, very hard not to glare at the man before him.

Not when Gabriel was still docile.

Not when his smile still bared his fangs.

“The offer’s always open to sell the shop and its location, you know,” he suggested with a flash of those perfect teeth. 

Aziraphale immediately stifled the reply of just where Gabriel could stick his offer. It warred with the ever-present, “Duly noted,” that eventually won out.

But his eyes betrayed his words. They always did. Gabriel pouted. “Aw, don’t look at me like that sunshine.”

He stepped closer; the gleam in his eyes told Aziraphale that Gabriel rather liked the way the bookshop seller had shrunken down on himself like cornered prey— _weak_ and _desperate._ “You know there’s no sense in sending my men after you.”

Aziraphale flinched as Gabriel leaned forward, his hand brushing against the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat as he straightened his bowtie. Aziraphale moved to straighten it himself. “Yes, I know. Thank you, Gabriel—”

The grip on his wrist was tight—tight enough for skin to bruise and his bones to creak. Gabriel leaned in close, his words like venom as it dripped from the curve of his smile. “I’ll give you another week to get the money.”

Aziraphale stiffened. A cold nausea came slithering down his gut. His vision blurred as bitter, suffocating shame rose to this throat.

“What do we say, sunshine?” Gabriel asked as released his hand only to tug the bowtie free from Aziraphale’s neck.

“T-Thank you—” he said, shuddering as Gabriel popped off the top button, then the next, a monstrous _hunger_ in his cold gaze, “—Gabriel.”

Aziraphale stifled a whimper as his back hit a wall of brick and the points of those _perfect_ teeth bit and bruised at the soft meat of his neck, bared and _vulnerable_ to the brutal assault. Gabriel’s grip was painful and left blue-tipped marks across his too-delicate flesh as he pinned him in place. His breath smelt of whiskey—his too-warm, too-bitter mouth sealing over his own, robbing his oxygen and taking what remaining rationale Aziraphale had left.

Gabriel pulled away, smile pointed and red as he began loosening his belt. Sickness flooded Aziraphale’s stomach as something dug at the side of his hip, hidden away at his coat pocket. Gabriel lowered his zipper and the burning _shame_ became too much to bear. In one _desperate_ moment, Aziraphale scrabbled at his side for purchase, for his final performance.

“You can thank me on your knees, sunshine—”

The blade had been meant for himself.

It had been meant for his own throat. It had been meant to stain with his own blood. It had meant to be used at his own shop, surrounded by a failed dream, a failed life.

It hadn’t been meant for Gabriel.

It hadn’t been meant for _his_ throat as the man choked and sputtered. It hadn’t been meant for _his_ blood as it dripped like the leaky faucet Aziraphale never had the time nor money to fix. It hadn’t been meant to be used here in this alleyway with Aziraphale’s hands stained red—

With one hand attempting to stop and slow the flood of red trickling between his fingers, Gabriel stumbled forward, grabbing for him with a grotesque mix of disbelief and horror. Aziraphale could only hear the thrashing of his own heartbeat in his ears as he rushed forward and drove the knife into his chest. Again. And again. And again.

The clean, crisp suit bloomed in vibrant roses as Gabriel crumpled to the earth and something thrummed in Aziraphale’s veins—pounding, _beating_ , and **_singing_** as his body went limp, went _cold_ , his eyes wide open and gleaming with _weakness and desperation—_

It was ephemeral. It was _euphoric_.

Aziraphale cherished that ecstasy until his own tears blurred his vision and his own screams painted the alleyway a bright, beautiful red.

* * *

In a quiet alley flanked on three sides by derelict buildings, with neighbors that knew better than to investigate any off-putting sounds echoing through the night, a metal gate was open just wide enough to slip through. A man in a red-stained suit kept to the shadows and ducked to silent streets as cars came rumbling by the road. But the man was neither here, nor there, as he ambled his way towards home in blood-speckled clothes and guilt at his heels.

No, the man was still there in that quiet alleyway—

As was a forgotten knife carved into a cold carcass, with relief and joy splattering the gravel floor— a standing ovation as the curtain fell.

* * *

_"All the world's a stage,"_

* * *

Crowley had only been given the vague instructions to _Go in there and make some trouble._

A matter of _territory_ and some minor disputes that have escalated as… _tensions_ between their factions rose.

He’d been trailing this one for a while now and it seemed the nervous gentleman, looking so _painfully_ out of place in that seedy little bar, was to be his ticket going forward. The blond stood there, so very _soft_ and _anxious_ as under _The Messenger’s_ predatory smile, that it was all too obvious of his current position as lamb to the wolf in the charcoal grey suit.

Crowley watched as he held off his guards for this encounter, dismissing them home in hauteur and hubris, and Crowley knew to take this opportunity to strike.

* * *

Crowley watched from the shadows.

He suppressed a sneer at the way he’d filthily touched the blond, the lust for power driving his target to force the other man into submission. Crowley toyed with the idea of stepping in at this moment— _saving_ this poor prey from the predator intent on devouring him. And just as he’d anticipated, his target made to take off his belt and lower his zipper; Crowley stood from his position, his weapon of choice at the ready.

Crowley hadn’t anticipated the knife.

Hadn’t anticipated the cruel slash at his target’s throat, nor the messy, _feverish_ way the blond had retaliated as his target grappled for control.

And Crowley found he couldn't look away.

All that lovely, _repressed_ rage and grief with every twist of the blond made with his blade— Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat, _fascinated_ , _entranced_ , and **_captivated_** —

He felt something thud, _thunder,_ and quake in his chest as he watched the act unfold, eyes wide as the mockery of spotlight shone down from the streetlamps above to the scene below. Crowley had seen many men die. Seen many men kill—always with a clumsy desperation and adrenaline-fueled sadism. Hacking and slashing away in artless abstraction and befouling Pollock’s name with crude form and technique. 

But no—

 _Here,_ what Crowley found was _freedom,_ _exhilaration_ , and **_ecstasy_** as the little lamb drove the knife through the wolf’s bloodied body until the death throes stopped and the swans sung their last song for _The Messenger_ in garbled, fading tones.

 _Here_ , what Crowley found was the haunting cry of the man before him, tears streaking down his cheeks and red splashed across his skin as he continued on in his frenzy. The slick _squelch_ of the knife digging through muscle, fat, and viscera, the way his entrails extruded from where the blond had carved through his gaping abdomen—

It was simply _spectacular._

A swell of emotion— something _great,_ something unnamed, something _irrefutable—_ ballooned beneath the cage of his ribs, and Crowley felt himself _moved._ He could only hope that the video could capture the true essence of the scene before him, give the performance the justice that this blond deserved: the prim, nervous veneer of his little lamb washed away in blood to reveal a creature of fangs and claws that lurked beneath.

And to Crowley, he was absolutely _beautiful_.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Crowley to find the man.

It didn't take him long to find _The Messenger's_ list of clientele. He has his own connections to London’s underworld, after all. Just as well, he may have taken credit for the kill, but that didn’t mean the Archangels didn’t have their suspicions.

((those scenting the same lamb he’d been hunting were swiftly dealt with.))

And it didn't take long for him to acknowledge that _this_ had become a problem. He acknowledged that what he'd seen— it was lighting in a bottle. It was a brief eternity— too _perfect_ and far too _sublime_ to last. And yet, it drove him to sleepless nights, looping visions, the unfading notion that if he'd only _find_ the man again—

 _Well_. 

A few short weeks brought him here, _at last,_ before an ashen-faced bookseller who jumped at his presence and nervously tugged at his bowtie—

_((an outward sign of vulnerability—))_

—and welcomed him inside to peruse his collection.

“Perhaps you’ll find something of interest,” he said with a mild, lilting voice—nothing at all like the wails that echoed in his thoughts, the strangled laughter as the little lamb shed his first blood. It played on a constant loop in Crowley’s thoughts, in Crowley’s memories, in Crowley’s dreams—

—on Crowley’s phone.

“Actually, I was wondering if you’d take a look at something of mine,” Crowley offered, unlocking the screen and sliding the device across the table. “Something of interest to you, I’d imagine.”

 _The poor thing_ , something saccharine and sanguine all at once cooed in Crowley’s mind as the man’s face contorted and crumbled to shock and disgust once the video played.

Mr. A. Z. Fell dropped the phone and immediately scrambled to pick it back up, a harried, _revolted_ look in his eyes. He looked nauseas, _mournful_ —

 _Questioning_.

“Take it,” Crowley scoffed. He gave a crooked smile as the man’s eyes hardened. “I’ve got more.” It was as much a threat as it was an offer.

Crowley smiled, watching as Mr. A. Z. Fell traced the edge of a sharp letter opener with the tips of his finely manicured finger. A hard press was enough to ooze a small trickle of blood. “What do you want in return?” It was a bargain as much as it was a plea.

Crowley reached into his pocket and dropped a single article, sheathed in a plastic bag—

A bloodied paring knife.

A bloodied paring knife that had previously been lodged in Mr. Gabriel’s mouth, right between his _perfect_ teeth.

Crowley took the blade out and laid it on the table before him. A delicious shiver trilled down his spine as Mr. A. Z. Fell brought his sea-storm gaze to his with anxious terror and morbid curiosity. Fangs glinted in the flash of Crowley’s smile.

_"I want to watch you do it again."_

**Author's Note:**

> The next submission will be a much more lighthearted one, so stay tuned! c: 
> 
> I'm on tumblr @new-endings if you'd like to say hello~


End file.
